


An Embassy

by thedevilchicken



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crossover, Getting Together, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Political Alliances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:15:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29121795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Varys' spies hear rumours that Viserys might be courting the help of King Elessar in Gondor. Robert dispatches Stannis to make sure that's not the case.He doesn't find a Targaryen plot to take back the throne, but he does meet Faramir of Gondor.
Relationships: Stannis Baratheon/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24
Collections: X-Ship - The Crossover Flash Exchange





	An Embassy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



Gondor is not so different from Westeros, Stannis thinks. At least not at its heart. 

He's spent almost two months there, acting as his brother's ambassador to King Elessar; Stannis finds Varys and his spycraft distasteful at the best of times but when Robert dispatched him overseas he understood the Council's desire to make sure Gondor did not choose to lend its might to the claim of Viserys Targaryen. So, he sailed across the Great Sea into the Bay of Belfalas and sent word ahead of his arrival from his distant cousins' house at Dol Amroth. When he arrived in Minas Tirith, the king knew to expect him. Indeed the king's steward, Faramir, met Stannis and his party at the city's great gate and escorted him up into the castle. Frankly, from his bearing, and his manner, and from the way he spoke as they made their way, Faramir could have been a king himself.

Official welcomes in the Seven Kingdoms often take the form of a feast; Stannis found it was no different in Gondor. He sat side by side with Petyr fucking Baelish that evening at the king's high table, wondering how he might distance himself somewhat from his devious companion. The opportunity came at the evening's end, when most other men might have had a little too much drink in them to hold their tongue, which may have been the point. Faramir rested his warm hand at Stannis' shoulder, leaned in close and told him the king would like to speak with him alone; the warmth of that hand seemed to linger long after he'd let go, which said perhaps he'd had a little too much to drink himself. Still, as they walked, he resolved to put that out of mind. He understands now that he failed in that respect.

Inside the king's study, he asked the question outright: did Gondor intend to back the Mad King's heirs? 

"Is that why you're here?" Elessar asked, as he studied him from across the room.

"It is."

"Then you won't be disappointed," he replied, with a twist to his mouth. "Until your conflict touches Middle-earth, who sits the Iron Throne is Westerosi business." He stood; even there in his private study, the crown set aside, Stannis couldn't help but think King Elessar seemed a hundred times more regal than Robert ever could or would, more regal even than he'd earlier considered Faramir. "Stay as our guest until the spring, though; your journey back won't be so harsh by then." He extended one hand toward the door in amiable dismissal. "Enjoy Minas Tirith for a few weeks, Lord Stannis. You'll want a tour and I've asked Faramir to be your guide." 

Stannis thanked him. He withdrew, quite certain that he'd been told the truth, and he resolved to write to his brother to that effect; nothing he's seen since has given him cause to doubt. And, in the morning, Faramir took him out into the city. 

He recalls how he told him stiffly that he hadn't meant to take his time from more important business; Faramir smiled and said, with no hint of irony, "My lord, it makes a welcome change." And nothing he's seen since has given him cause to doubt that, either.

Faramir is a tall man, almost Stannis' own height, grey-eyed and intelligent and quick of step, who speaks the common tongue in the same accented way as Stannis speaks Westron - evidently, they both studied in more youthful days and let their learning lapse a little when more pressing events laid claim to their time. He found it pleasant to reacquaint himself with the language as they strolled around the city, through its streets, among their people. The guards at the wall knew Faramir by sight - some, it seemed, had fought with him in the still-recent war, as some of Stannis' party had fought with him. It seemed their common ground had more breadth than he might have thought at first glance. And at dinner that evening, the conversation continued. 

The conversation continued in the following days, too, when Faramir rode out with him into the ruins at Osgiliath to show him how Gondor had started to rebuild, or took him riding through the Pelennor, or walking in the gardens. It continued for the week after that, during which Faramir took him over the river to Ithilien with his rangers; Stannis didn't hesitate to strap his sword around his waist and follow him into the wilds, though King Elessar did suggest losing King Robert's brother might not be a swift or sure path into friendship. Faramir laughed and said he'd take care, and the look that he gave Stannis made his face feel hot.

It continued in tents and around campfires, as Stannis got the measure of the man: his quiet confidence was one thing, but the respect of his men was something else. They could have fought together, Stannis thought. When Faramir spoke a little of Sauron and the Ring, Stannis' brother's rebellion almost seemed petty in comparison - he didn't have it in him to call the siege of Storm's End _petty_ , though, nor did Faramir treat it as such. As they sat together by the fire, wrapped up tight in their cloaks against the winter chill, he understood he trusted Faramir of Gondor more readily than half the lords of Westeros: certainly more than Littlefinger, who had remained there in the city. If Stannis didn't ask what he was doing there, it was because he strongly preferred he didn't know.

It continued when they returned to Minas Tirith, on all the mornings when they walked together before Faramir excused himself back to his work in the king's council chambers. They ate together sometimes, in the evenings - Stannis had no need of continual feasting, though he understood King Elessar might have offered it, and the somewhat frugal fare at Faramir's table suited him quite well. The company suited him, too, he thought, as they sat together by the fire. They had both been born high, to be leaders of men, but there was no arrogance in Faramir. They had both been tested and each knew their own worth. And, more than that, Faramir's hand at Stannis' shoulder as they said good night felt almost enough to warm him though till morning. In bed, he wondered if perhaps that hand at his shoulder was an invitation. Each time, he became more certain; each time, in case his instincts were untrue, he left.

He'll miss that, he thinks, as he watches tonight's dancing - his brother will ask about the women he's met, of course, and by _met_ he'll mean something far more base, but his memory will turn more to the king's steward and his hand there on his shoulder. He can see him from his table, in his fine costume, in his fine mask that can't hide who he is when they've spent so many hours in one another's company, at this festival that marks the start of spring and so the end of Stannis' embassy. He's dancing, and he dances well, fleet of foot and elegant. Stannis knows that he himself, in spite of the fine clothes that Faramir sent for him to wear tonight, has never had that kind of grace. He's had no need for it and he feels no envy, only a kind of quiet admiration.

He still feels that admiration, or something not unlike it, when the dance ends and he watches Faramir come closer. He feels warm behind his mask and would ask himself if Gondorian wine might be stronger than he's used to, but he knows that's no excuse. 

"You're not dancing, my lord?" Faramir asks, as he sits down beside him. 

"I dance as rarely as I'm able," he replies, and the fact that Faramir's mask leaves his face bare from nose to jaw means Stannis sees him smile at that. 

"When was the last time?"

"My brother's wedding." 

"Will you dance at your own?"

Stannis' mouth twists wryly. "Will you dance at yours?" he replies, and Faramir sits back and taps the table's edge with one hand as if to concede the point - it's true they are both bachelors. Then, slowly, he leans back in again, and leans in closer still. 

"So tonight's your final night in Minas Tirith?" he says, his voice just low enough that he's still audible above the lively music. 

"It is," Stannis replies. 

"I'm sorry for that." 

"You are?"

"I am."

"Should I ask why?"

His face felt warm before. When Faramir's hand settles at his shoulder, his face feels warmer still.

"I'd hoped to puzzle out if you've an interest in me or if I've read you - and the situation - wrongly," Faramir admits, quite openly. "Now all that's left is asking bluntly on the night before you leave." He glances away, at the dancers, the musicians, tables laden with food and cups filled with drink. He glances back again, his grey eyes so sharp that Stannis might almost believe they see inside him, to the tightness in his chest or his warm cheeks beneath his mask. 

"Do you?" Faramir asks him. 

"Do I...?"

"Have an interest in me, Stannis. Not as Elessar's aide. Not as an ally, or even a friend."

He could say no. He could make an excuse for all the ways that he's encouraged this, but excuses don't come easily; he could dismiss the idea bluntly, but that would not be true. 

"Yes," he says instead, and Faramir rises. 

When he says, "Come with me," he does that. Just as he has these past few weeks, he finds it easy to keep up.

Faramir's rooms are familiar to him after all these evenings spent together, but tonight there's no light lit inside except the fire. In his mask with his long hair tied back, Faramir himself is familiar but still different, and even once the door is closed against the echoes of the feast downstairs, he does not remove that mask. When he presses Stannis to the door, one hand spread firm against his chest, he seems anxious but not hesitant. When he kisses him, their masks knock together. Neither of them finds that a deterrent. 

It doesn't come as a surprise to Stannis that he lacks Faramir's grace in this way, too; Stannis is a blunt man, disciplined and dutiful, military in bearing, and he's never thought to practice what goes on behind closed doors. Perhaps neither has Faramir - he could certainly believe that it comes naturally to him - but his fingers don't stumble at Stannis' belt the way Stannis' do at his. His mouth, when he goes down to his knees in front of him, is all breathless talent. And when they go to his bed, naked but still masked, Faramir straddles him and makes it last as if he knows precisely how to. All that Stannis can do is grip his waist and thrust up as he's braced against the mattress. He might lack grace, yes, he will admit that, but he makes up for it in strength and in enthusiasm. After all, he's wanted this for weeks. 

"I understand you won't stay the night," Faramir tells him, after, breathless from the things they've done, "but don't leave yet." And he's right: a thread of something like propriety tugs inside Stannis' chest and tells him even if he's leaving Gondor in the morning, there are rules. He nods, though; he won't stay the night, but he won't leave yet. 

"I know what you came here to ask," Faramir says next, as they lie there in the firelight. "And I know what he told you when you asked it. Gondor remains neutral." He takes a slow breath and lets it out just as slowly, almost seeming tense all of a sudden. Then he nods. "But that doesn't mean that we're not friends to the Seven Kingdoms generally or that an invitation to visit would be refused." 

And when Faramir reaches over to untie his mask, when he sets both of them aside and inside him Stannis feels an unfamiliar surge, he wishes for once he could set aside propriety entirely. The best that he can manage, though, is kissing him, hard, with both hands tangled up with his long dark hair. The best that he can manage is that when they part again he says, "Would the king come?"

Faramir smiles. "He'd send me," he replies. 

And so Stannis resolves to speak with Robert almost when he arrives back in King's Landing. The council will see it as good for diplomacy, and so he'll feel no guilt at his own motives. Besides, Littlefinger is no doubt already making plans.

Gondor is not so different from Westeros, Stannis thinks: their troubles are alike these days, and men there are the same as men are everywhere. But he's not sure he's ever met a man like Faramir. 

Now they've met, he thinks, he doesn't need to meet another.


End file.
